


Comfort Food

by notafern



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crying, Cuddling, F/M, Pale, Pale Porn, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notafern/pseuds/notafern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose and Dave are living together post-SBURB. Rose offers him dinner. It proves to be traumatic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort Food

This was the first time you had seen him in a week, you thought.

He made a sound in between sighing and groaning, as he slid down into the ornate wing chair sitting in front of the incredibly nondescript grey folding card table that sat flush against the corner. Two chairs next to each other on each available side of the table, opposite of the walls. You contemplated when you two had first moved in – you decided that you would both each decide on a piece of furniture for each room. And that's how your apartment ended up with a heavy, granite coffee table, in between the “gaming chairs” sitting on the floor where you would have put some sort of sofa, and the hot pink Hello Kitty television sitting on a beautiful dark wooden media center. 

His expression almost looked like a sullen child, slumped over in the plush chair, contrasted with his eyes, set within heavy darkened circles, staring at the portion of table directly in front of him as he waited for you to place his sustenance in that exact spot.

You were glad he was there, all things considered, despite your company's current disposition. You had to admit you were concerned. You had knocked on his door earlier in the day, after having realized, in between your countless hours spent at the coffee shop hammering away at your keyboard and the equally numerous hours spent wrapped up in your sheets, that you hadn't seen him in approximately a week.

“Dave.”  
You waited. No response, but you heard a shuffle. You considered pointing this out, but you figured something less confrontational was better. He'd feel less pressure if he could pretend you didn't know if he was listening or not.  
“I'm making dinner tonight.”  
You left it at that.

And here you were, pulling a glass casserole dish full of macaroni and cheese (picked for his mild and finicky tastes) and scooping it onto two plate next to brocolli and roasted tomatoes that were more for you than for him, knowing he wouldn't touch them (until you covered the brocolli in cheese, at least). You perused your (admittedly some what meager) collection of wines, and decided on a Cabernet for yourself, pouring it delicately into your favorite glass. For your companion you selected the finest of orange sodas, Fanta, and decided on a plastic cup instead of the delicate champagne flute you would be sure usually your sensitive brother would love, aware that he might consider such a familiar act to be a joke at his expense instead of for his own amusement.

As you slid the plate in front of him, right into the point he had been staring at as you finished your preparations, he lifted his head up, almost as if you had caught him by surprise. Dave met your gaze through his shades for a fleeting moment, before heaving his eyes hastily and angrily back to the food, as if embarrassed you had managed to remove him from the void he was currently presiding in. Unsure of how to respond to his display of discomfort with your company, you then brought him his drink as well as (somewhat reluctantly) a plastic container half full of powered “parmesan” product. You slipped yourself into your own chair next to him. His eyes were closed, but as you picked up your fork and knife, and carefully started pulling apart a larger piece of broccoli, your knife scraped lightly against the plate and his eyes opened once again. He sat up, and examined the mac and cheese carefully. Then, he took the the can of parmesan, and unceremoniously dumped piles of it all over the plate, on the broccoli, the mac and cheese, and much to your personal dread, the roasted tomatoes never intended to be met with such horrible cheese-producty fate. You tried to hold back your personal disgust at the dry grainy particulate covering the work you so carefully attended to. And with that, he dug in, as you sipped from your glass in an attempt to hide your grimace least he look up now. The mac and cheese was inhaled. Faced with the broccoli, he paused momentarily, before hastily stabbing several crowns at once with his fork, and unloading another payload of powdery Kraft onto the offending veggies speared upon his utensil before placing the entire clusterfuck into his mouth. It was truly a sight to be seen, particularly when he finished them when you were just managing to finish your broccoli, and were only halfway through your own pasta. Both of your tomatoes were both currently untouched. He stared at them, sneering for a couple minutes, before speaking, more towards his plate than to you.  
“You know I hate tomatoes.”  
“But you like Parmesan, right?” you say, referring to the powder clumped up in damp spades upon the offending fruit.  
He grumbled, and slowly pushed the mass of parmesan and tomato around his plate, before stabbing a piece angrily, pausing, and then reluctantly placing it in his mouth. You could see him chewing slowly, before very forcefully swallowing, and immediately reaching for his cup, prior to which he hadn't touched. He took a big gulp.  
You were somewhat glad you had been watching him so carefully, or you might have missed the shocked and upset look on his face before he dropped what he had been holding, releasing a flood of Fanta all over himself and the armchair you were currently glad was purchased in shades of brown, red and gold.  
You stood up immediately, and tried to help dry up the spilling beverage, before he stood up himself and pushed you out of his way, and made a beeline for his room, slamming his door behind him.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

After cleaning up the orange soda, washing the disgustingly sweet syrup off of your hands, and upending the remnants of your second glass of wine into your mouth, you stood in front of his door. You rapped upon it with a degree of firmness, three knocks. No response. You couldn't hear anything inside. You weren't sure what to do, until you had the scary thought that perhaps he wasn't in there anymore, somehow escaping through the 14th story window, unsure how unpredictable he was at this moment. Your heart skipped a beat at the potential consequences of him wandering off in his state, and you couldn't help yourself from attempting to open the door. It was unlocked, and swung out to reveal the dark interior of his room, emanating a sobering chill far greater than any of the forsaken books of the occult you had ever opened, despite the sweltering, humid heat that immediately smacked you in the face with only a short delay upon the release of the air inside. You waited a moment before stepping inside, and as your eyes adjusted to the darkness of his room relieved only by the dim light provided from the exterior window (which you noted, did not have a fire escape as you had feared, so he was unlikely to attempt to leave from there... probably). He was curled up on his bed, against the wall facing away from you, shaking and mumbling into a pillow he clutched as he laid on his side, still wearing his same shirt soaked with Fanta.   
“Dave.”  
His only reaction was burying his face deeper into the pillow he was holding. You could only stand there silently as you contemplated what to do.

You thought to yourself that you generally never thought of your brother as being inherently sensitive, per say. You gazed around his room, which you realized you hadn't seen in months, and realized how it reflected the idea that you actually thought of him, usually. A variety of movie posters, artwork, and photographs taken himself, some known to be from long ago by their neon scribbles left on them from when he was 13, were displayed haphazardly with scotch tape and push pins. The visages of Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson fell into your focus, only to be replaced by the doodles given to him by Jade. His room hadn't changed much since after the game, most of it replaced exactly, even. You couldn't ignore, however, that as much as his disposition seemed externally to remain the same, that you can't imagine these outbursts occurring before.

Eventually, you decided on sitting on his bed. You could feel him shaking, some sort of noise coming from him sent deep into the pillow (which, to your amusement, seemed to be some sort of body pillow with a cartoon horse on it. You managed to keep yourself from chuckling.). When it hit you that he was probably crying, even though you should have recognized it earlier, your stomach lurched from the intense feeling of pity. You went to put your hand on his shoulder, pausing for just a moment before laying it on him gently. He seemed to cry harder as you slowly rubbed his shoulder, thumb easing its way against a knot you found on the back most part. After a minute, or possibly five, you moved your hand down, slowly passed her hand in circles along his stomach, before whispering quietly in his ear.   
“Come on, your shirt is still sticky. Let's get you cleaned up.”  
To your surprise, his face came out of his pillow, eyes squinting and red. You guided him to sit up, and he followed you to the bathroom you two shared.

As you turned the faucet on, waiting for it to get warm, he stood, sniffling and clutching his arms, practically hugging himself, until you went to peel the sugar laden fabric off his body. He barely lifted his arms up just enough for you to pull it over his head, but as it came off, you realized he hadn't been wearing his glasses this entire time. His eyes met yours, for just a moment, with a look of intense guilt only exacerbated by the ruby color of his pupils, somewhat dulled by the bloodshot veins spread across the whites of his eyes. He looked shamefully at the floor, and started shaking again. You rubbed his shoulder, sighing deeply, and ran your hand through his hair, unsure about what he needed to feel better, and generally confused as to what he was even upset about. Sometimes he just felt impossible to deal with. As his shaking slowed, but didn't seem to stop, you returned to the faucet, dampening a wet washcloth with the soothingly warm water and a touch of soap. After wringing it out, you ran it along his front and sides, moving in slow, deliberate circles, as the tension seemed to diminish from his sinewy body. He looked so delicate, somehow. You couldn't resist the urge to comfort your brother pulling him into a deep hug while stroking the back of his hair, as he weakly hugged you back, burrowing his face into your neck. He shook a little bit more, and you felt your shirt become slightly damp, before you heard a large growl come from him. You asked quietly.  
“Are you still hungry, Dave?”  
He made a small noise that could have been anything, but slowly nodded his head into the shoulder in which he had found residence. And with that, you led him to the kitchen by the hand.  
It didn't take long to microwave the mac and cheese, but he still seemed to feel anxious as you moved mostly with ease around him while he stood there, his arms in his hands, staring at his pink and green socks. It was steaming when you pulled it out, and you could still identify the fragrances of fontina and gruyère, though you made a note that the small amounts of gouda you previously added seemed to be lost after reheating. You were about to merely hand him the boiling hot plate, before giving him another look. He was shaking and weak, and you couldn't bear to watch him like this in the open space of your own kitchen. It felt too public, despite the fact that you two were inherently alone in your own apartment. Some instinct within you told you that being fragile out in the open was unacceptable, and you walked with his plate towards his room, looking back just a moment to catch him following you in a manner not unlike a duck, a somewhat relieved look on his red and puffy face. 

You sat down first, sitting upright on his bed, back against the wall, and rested the plate on a particularly stable looking pile of blankets, before motioning to him to come sit with you. He goes to try and find a spot next to you against the wall, until you guide him into your arms, sitting with his back against your chest. He seems rigid at first, apprehensive, but you ignore it. You grab his mac and cheese, holding it in front of him, in his lap. He grabs the fork, hunches over, and eats, slowly this time. Your hands find their way across his body, gently rubbing his chest and all over his back, eventually finding its way up to his head, running your long black nails into the dirty blonde hair, at a length starting to rival your own. You slowly massage his scalp with the pads of your fingers, taking care not to scratch him, and eventually worked your way down to his neck. As you knead the spot where his hairline just about ended, the sounds of the fork hitting the plate becomes more and more frequent. Eventually, he leans back into your arms, his breath shallow and sniffly, and seems to melt into your grasp. The sensation of him giving into your grasp melts your heart as you consider that he was always very distant, seemingly emotional and unnecessarily defensive for no apparent reason, and yet now you're here, soothing him, closer to him, even if you have the looming feeling of being aware that you're unaware of why he was upset in the first place. That feeling is just about lost in the joy found in bringing him closer to you. You squeeze him tight, and rub your cheek against his neck. After a few minutes like this, you almost think he's asleep, his breath still shallow, but slow, somewhat serene. You give him another small hug, trying not to wake him but almost overwhelmed by the connection you feel with your brother, before he gives another shake.  
And another.  
And he starts crying again, more violently than he had before, no longer the trickle you had seen. Despite his convulsions, you hold him flush against you, and feel some of the tears fall on your arms.  
You hear a clatter of metal scrape against something, and you realize he still has his plate in his lap. With one hand you rub his chest in a palliating manner, and the other, you lift the plate out of his lap, and go to place it on the cinderblock and plywood table next to his bed, only to realize you were about to place it on top of a pair of glasses.  
It was dark in his room, but you could still recognize that they weren't his.  
You squint, trying to examine them, your eyes usually accustomed to the darkness. Somehow the dim light here felt more impenetrable. After about a minute of squinting, judging its shape against the other objects on the desk, the feeling of realization makes you shiver from your hairline down your spine.   
Of course.  
The shame in not figuring it out earlier causes you to bury your head into Dave's neck. Even worse, you hadn't been too terribly concerned about what was bothering him in the first place.  
His brother's glasses, easy to examine now that you're aware of their shape, seemed to gleam against the minimal light provided, the reflections somewhat broken by precipitate on lenses that you realize to be tears dried upon the surface.   
You had previously never truly considered yourself to have loved someone. Even if you had loved someone, you would have personally not admitted it to yourself, ignoring the intimacy. You realized in this moment, that, when the thought that you loved your brother floated into your mind, it wasn't banished away due to the fear of familiarity that you usually carried with you. With allowing that confidence to settle, you realize that you could not know the pain Dave felt. He had loved his brother, not just for the moment you've experienced, but for years, love reinforced by admiration and adoration. Dave had lost the one he had loved, and you couldn't relate. Understanding that you could not relate to the brother you had accepted that you loved left a pit in your stomach.   
You had nothing to say, to comfort him.  
Maybe he didn't need anyone to say anything.  
What could you say to someone who had lost the person closest to them?  
Dave cried quietly, mostly. Despite his thrashing, it looked as if he held back all the noise he wanted to make. It seemed odd to you. You move from holding to chest, to slowly grasping his hands. They feel as lean as they look, all bone and sinew, and the immense feeling of coupling from the mutual contact builds pressure up inside of you, until it released in a noisy sigh.   
It felt as if you had ripped through the abyss that encompassed the room, through the blanket of near silence and almost darkness. Dave groaned, just a little bit, in response.   
An impulse slips into your thoughts. You don't know if he'd be willing, but you can't stop yourself from wanting to try.  
“Dave.”  
He sighs deeply. You at least know he heard you.  
“Talk to me.”  
He sniffles, no longer crying, but his breath impossible to steady as it constantly hitches over another threat to cry. He sits like this for what feels like an eternity, and eventually you forget you had even said anything, merely focusing on stroking your thumbs against his hands, and hugging him close. Eventually, he speaks.  
“...he...” His breath hitches again. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and then releases. He starts again.  
“He... wouldn't have wanted me to...”  
You wait for him, continuing to trace circles onto his hands, unreactive, as if he were talking into the air, but still listening.   
He hiccups.  
“...wouldn't have wanted me to... be upset...”  
You consider what he said. You have heard this a lot, the cliché of not wanting your loved ones to suffer at your death. Dave's brother had a fulfilling life, after all, you were sure, but you realized that didn't remove the sense of loss.   
“...weak...”  
You almost don't hear him whisper underneath his breath, wrapped up in pondering what he had said.  
Of course it wasn't just that his brother didn't want him to be sad.   
You had approached it from the most generic approach possible.  
He sobbed in your arms at having revealed such an intimate word, as if letting it out had been a dagger to his chest. He feared he was weak, disappointing his lost brother. He had always been sensitive, yet raised in such a masculine household, unable to admit his feelings, and here he was disappointing his lost brother by crying over him.   
Before you even truly think about saying it, the words are already coming out of your mouth.  
“It's.. its okay. I'm the same way... except... I disappoint myself.” You hadn't even realized you had said something so significant.   
You knew you avoided your feelings, but you refused to acknowledge it was out of your own personal feeling of wanting to appear superior and stronger without admitting your faults. And so you felt, but you never cried. It would dwell inside of you, and become dark, and scary, and too painful to touch. Here, with your brother in your arms, crying, you felt you could share yourself.   
Much like his words to your own ears, you know he heard you, and comprehended it, but didn't seem to consider it too much, as if as horrible you felt about it, it wasn't altogether the end of the world. You would survive. He takes a deep breath, and you feel him press against your chest, before releasing, deflating and melting into your arms. You breath deeply, almost in response. You both fall asleep, exhausted from both of your various releases, internally and externally, accepting and sharing yourselves.

**Author's Note:**

> Eh, this is really my first fanfiction, so I'm sorry if it sucked, and very happy if you liked it. Let me know what you liked and didn't like!


End file.
